


Why I can't write slash

by SilverRaindemon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: just kidding, not really slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRaindemon/pseuds/SilverRaindemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's kind of (not really) an argumentative essay explaining why I can't write slash although sometimes I do want to. Just have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why I can't write slash

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and as usual I don't profit from writing this. I am also sure the whole idea isn't new but I really had fun writing it so decided to share.
> 
> Please comment!

The interstellar infantry was back on the base after a long and exhausting attack on alien bugs. Space cadet Holmes, treading heavily,  entered the locker room. His extra-light armour was covered in green slime and unappetizing scale scraps. Black curls were plastered to his pale forehead with sweat. The locker room was almost empty, most cadets had already showered and left, only sergeant Watson was still sitting on the bench wearing only a towel on his lithe hips. He was massaging his old shoulder wound, taut muscles slid under his pink and clean skin. Holmes grinned lopsidedly at his sergeant and threw the armour and the rest of his clothes on the floor. Watson’s eyes involuntarily followed fit naked figure as Holmes graciously walked into the shower room.

“Now kiss,” the Author rubbed her hands impatiently.

Watson’s stomach reminded him loudly that it’s been almost 24 hours since something edible resided there. Sergeant stood up, dressed and went to the canteen, whistling merrily.

NO, the Alternative Universe said.

***

Frosty blizzard was howling around the lost in snow prisoners of war camp. Barbed wire snaked along the top of the fence. Watchdogs barked in the distance. It was deathly quiet in the barrack, uneasy sleep claimed most of the prisoners. John and Sherlock were huddled together in a dark corner, pressed to each other for warmth and secrecy both.  Sherlock’s neck was jutting out from the padded jacket like a delicate flower from a rough pot. His long finger was tracking a line on a small dirty piece of paper. John watched closely, his tongue stuck out from the corner of his mouth from concentration. A shadow slid through a rectangle of light from the window sprawled across the floor. Sherlock lowered his voice even more and inclined his head closer to John, so close that his long dark eyelashes brushed across John’s cheek.

“Now kiss,” the Author suggested eagerly.

John raised his hand carefully and quietly, holding his breath, and scratched his cheek thoughtfully, then tucked his hand back under his armpit for warmth.

NO, the Alternative Universe said.

The Author tore her hair and swore loudly. Then an enlightenment came.

***

 Luxurious Mediterranean sun was lavishing the agora with shining rays. A tall patrician was walking briskly towards the Asclepius temple when a hetaera with an intricate hair styling stopped him. Her blood red mouth crooked unattractively as she was speaking quickly, obviously requiring something of hers back from the patrician with piercing grey eyes. He threw her aside with indignation and went on disregarding her shouting. The noise attracted one of Asclepius priests who went out of the temple on the hot sand to see what was going on. It took a couple of seconds for the patrician to take in his strong muscular figure, obvious limp and stiffness in his shoulder to understand that this man was a gladiator previously. He also didn’t fail to notice his golden smooth skin, wise dark blue eyes and soft locks of light hair faded in the relentless sun. The priest observed the lanky patrician with immense curiosity as well, his eyes stumbling upon high cheekbones, elegant long limbs and wild ebony curls. He smiled eagerly greeting the patrician.

“Now kiss,” the Author pleaded desperately.

“No!” the friends shouted in unison.

“But why?” the Author wailed pathetically.

“Because we are just friends,” they replied resolutely.

“And I’m not gay,” John added hastily.


End file.
